


Quiet Moments

by masonverger_rising



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Multi, Panties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:28:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonverger_rising/pseuds/masonverger_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts about different characters wearing panties.<br/>That's it, that's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharp Dressed Man

Willy is going to stay with his grandparents for a week and for the days leading up to it there is a spark between Will and Molly. More than their usual, which is good,  _great,_  as it is. A frisson that makes the air between them quiver, that fills their night times with an extra thrill of anticipation, for the things that will come later.

Molly drives him up. Willy’s grandparents don’t appreciate having the man who has taken their son’s place paraded in front of them. Not that Will had done much more than shuffle awkwardly through their living room and make stilted small talk when they’d met. They adore Molly, they dote on Willy, they grieve their son. Will is a fifth wheel.

So he waits at home, and he feels itchy, feels like dashing up and down the long upstairs hall, tapping his feet all the way down the stairs, he goes down to the lounge and fidgets — it’ll be close on an hour before Molly gets back, longer if they convince her to stay for a glass of iced tea.

Will switches on the radio and he can’t help humming along to it, wriggling along to the music with an absent sort of enthusiasm. His mind is with Molly, behind the wheel of his sturdy old truck, Willy beside her, pointing out birds through the windshield, pointing out odd coloured cars, pointing out whatever caught his eye. Observant boy.

It only takes a few minutes for Will’s ambling to take him into their bedroom. His fingertips find a sheer nightie tossed haphazardly onto the bed that morning and he rolls it through his hand.

The idea comes to him, half genius, half madness and he’s laughing, biting his lip and laughing breathlessly as he goes to Molly’s drawers, slides the top one open and carefully paws through it, past the cotton panties, the day-to-day things down to the good stuff.

Sheer black, not lace but some kind of filmy mesh fabric, there’s a woven detail at the back that makes him feel warm thinking about it criss-crossing over the smooth base of her spine.

Will slips it on and tucks himself in, takes a few cautious steps to see how it feels and tries to imagine Molly’s reaction when she sees him. He thinks about where he’ll wait for her — the sitting room would let her see him right away, but he knows from past experience that if they end up fucking in there it’ll be uncomfortable. Last time the scar on his belly had ached for a couple of days afterwards.

The bedroom, then. He’ll fix the sheets and sprawl out across them, let her see him all at once when she comes around the corner.

He fishes through her drawer some more and his fingers find the soft, slippery length of some thigh-high panty hose. He shrugs and scrunches them down to the toe the way he’s seen her do, rolls one up his thigh, wondering how he’ll keep them up and then grinning when he realises that that’s taken care of — there’s a sticky line of silicone around the inside of the lace band at the top which clings to his thigh. It tugs at his leg hairs a little, but he moves around and it’s not so bad after a minute.

He pulls the other on just the same and adjusts them to be even.

Still half an hour at least until Molly is due back.

Will wanders out into the kitchen, grooving along to the radio as he goes. He’s not worried about being seen. The drive is long and the neighbours never visit without calling first. There’s no one around to see him.

There’s a pile of dishes in the sink left over from that morning, a couple that they’d left the night before. It would be a shame to start their week together doing dishes, and he has time,  _so—_

When Molly gets home she notices the dogs first, a couple out the front, dashing around in tight, joyous circles, their tongues lolling, tails wagging frantically. They’re too worked up to stay still and be petted so she just goes right inside, the house is cool inside, the windows open to catch the breeze coming off the ocean, and it is a relief after the long drive.

She can hear the music,  _Sharp Dressed Man_  twanging and grinding down the hall and then she picks Will singing along, his voice is smooth and low and only slightly off tune. It’s sweet, really, hearing him like this when he thinks there’s nobody there to hear.

Carefully, so she doesn’t make a sound, Molly toes off her sandals and pads down the hall into the kitchen, following the music.

She almost trips over herself at the sight that greets her, Will’s broad back to her, his arse barely covered with her flimsy black panties, a pair of thigh-highs _just_  starting to slip towards his knees. He bobs along with the music, elbow deep in dish water, a pile of clean things on the draining board beside him.

He still hasn’t noticed her.

She wonders how he’d  _intended_  her to find him, but after a second she decides that it doesn’t  _matter_. This is perfect, this is just the right way to start off their week togther.

Molly slips close behind him and rests her hands lightly on his hips before she smooths them around to his belly — and  _careful_ , so so careful because it still hurts him sometimes, she knows.

There’s a surprised grunt from Will and he twists back to look at her over his shoulder, “Hey there, hotlips.”

Molly grins up at him and her hand reaches down to press over his cock through the slick panties, “Hi baby,” she smiles, “you all dolled up just for me?”


	2. Ars Amatoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has a quiet evening.

His last patient of the day steps out, still clutching a crumpled tissue in her left hand, waterproof mascara valiantly staying in place. There has been a smudge of lipstick on her front tooth for the better part of her hour, and though it had irked Hannibal somewhat it had also seemed charming.

Let it remain in situ, a streak of cool red on her over-whitened teeth. Her vanilla scented perfume lingers after her.

As he turns back to his desk Hannibal feels the cool brush of fine silk against his skin and a spark of heady pleasure sweeps through him. He blinks slowly and moves again, deliciously aware now of how his suit trousers catch over the fastenings of his garter belt. He spreads his toes in his shoes, luxuriating.

The drive home is accented with Mozart. In the cool quiet of his home Hannibal cooks himself a sumptuous meal; rich sauce counterpointed with delicate fruit notes, meat divinely bloody and there is music, always music, some playing through the discrete speakers carefully placed around his home, some sounding rich and deep from within his memory palace.

Full and for the moment sated, Hannibal treads silently up the stairs to his room. He slips out of his suit like shedding a skin, and underneath is the sweet sub stratum of the day. He smooths his hands up his calfs, feeling the crisp of small hairs under the silk. Sometimes he will shave — if he expects someone to touch him, if it feels like that is the more pleasing option.

Today he has left his body hair. He enjoys it this way too, feeling the contrast between the crinkled hair and the delicate fabric.

Is it the thrill of the forbidden or the allure of the perverse that leads him to this?

No. This is more than that, and less. It is as easy and natural as his suits; the simple hedonism of sensation, the grace and elegance of silk as a counterpoint to sturdy wool and cotton.

Hannibal settles for the evening in his library by the fire, he draws a deep breath of his cognac before he tastes it. The scent mingles with the vanillin aroma of his books, the subtle undertone of good leather and his own cologne.

He stretches his legs out, crosses them at the knee and balances Ovid there;  _enjoy the spring-time of your years, taste of the sweets of lif_ eand oh he does, and he will continue to do but here he and the poet have a disagreement; _each new day that dawns is less sweet than those which went before_  — there is little that Hannibal can thank youth for.  _Age_ , what he has of it, has brought infinitely more joy for him than his fearful, wintery youth.

Here he sits in this home he has made, surrounded by books and luxury, dressed in the finest silk and warm and full, his belly soft and darkly furred, and he has all that he could wish for.

_Almost_  all that he could wish for.


	3. Kritios Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew Brown in blue.

They aren’t his. Not in the strictest sense. But laundry day is a bit of a tight spot this week, and since he has work Matthew needs something to keep him out of harms way — some of the patients can tend toward aggressive, and it’s best to keep your delicates out of reach.

He’s surprised that they even fit him, really. From memory the girl had been smaller than him; shorter, at least. Though she had been curvy in a way that had made cute dimples on her side when she’d curled up to sleep. He’d seen as he’d laid one of his blankets over her, her midriff top riding up.

Matthew hasn’t thought about her in months. There’s not much to think about in all honesty. He’d found her listing against his car, one shoe missing and too disorientated to even tell him her address when he’d asked. He’d half-carried her up to his apartment and let her curl up where she liked.

He’s always thought his sofa was pretty roomy so far as it goes.

In the morning he’d offered coffee and she’d eyed him darkly. He realised then that she might be scared of him, and had stuttered something about a boyfriend —  _his_  boyfriend, about how he didn’t like Matthew bringing home broken birds.

Not that he’d  _had_  a boyfriend at the time.

She still doesn’t take the coffee, but she lets him call her a cab. Later when he’d been making the bed, folding the corners square and tucking them away he’d noticed a wrinkle under the top sheet. He’d found the panties balled up around where her feet had been — he figured she had kicked them off in the night.

Would explain why she’d looked at him so wary, if she hadn’t been able to find them when she woke up.

Matthew hadn’t known quite what to do with them; it’s not like he could contact her, since he hadn’t asked for her number. Had no need of it. He’d just stuffed the panties into his drawer to make a decision at a later date.

Lucky, as it turns out.

They aren’t as roomy in front as he’s used to, but it’s not  _so_  much of a difficulty. He’s had people pick on him before, of course. People are cruel. But there are others. His last partner had never minded, had told him that it was enough, that no-one really  _needed_  more than a mouthful.

Had taken him to a museum once and shown him the statues, all those heroic greeks with their thimble-sized cocks. They’d ended up fucking in a cleaning supply closet there.

The panties are blue and there’s a glittery sort of thread woven through it. They itch a little at first around the crease of his thigh, but as he moves around it eases. He pulls on his uniform trousers and tucks his white jacket under his arm. In the car he hums along to the tinny radio, turns it up when the news comes on and then switches channels when there’s nothing about his recent work.

By mid morning he’s glad he’d decided to wear the panties. Manhandling Alan the Perv back to his cell after he’d gotten aggressive at one of the nurses, Alan had tried to grab him, hissing and spitting about how the woman wouldn’t just _answer his question, just a fucking question_.

Matthew likes the lower wards better than the upper. Even without Mr Graham to look at and think about, there’s a quiet down here that he likes. It’s not _comforting_ , that is entirely the wrong word. It is familiar.

He’s mopping the hall, has to heft up a jug of bleach onto his cart just as he’s passing Mr Graham’s cell. His shirt’s come untucked from the scuffle with Alan and the panties are riding a little high on his hip. Matthew sees the dart of Mr Graham’s eyes, down to that flash of blue-silver, fabric too fine and sheer to be found in any menswear department.

It doesn’t bother him. That’s not the reason why his ears burn red. Matthew finishes mopping as quickly as he can and pushes his cart back to the supply room, his teeth set in his lip, the corners of his mouth turning up in a helpless dopey grin.


	4. The Monster In Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, drugs, underwear.

The drugs go a long way to easing Abigail’s situation. It’s easier to deal with everything that’s happened while she’s cocooned in a soporific haze. It’s been a long time – longer than she can really remember now – since she’s even asked what he’s giving her. She’s long past the point of being worried by it, only concerned that the pills come often and that they are delicious. 

There is a little room, tucked into the odd geometry of Hannibal’s house. It is small enough to be a closet – and she thinks that that’s probably what it was intended to be. But Hannibal had hidden the door behind a book case and filled it with a soft mattress and now that’s where Abigail sleeps, that’s where she waits through the days and nights when he’s entertaining, when he’s maintaining their alibis.

She feels like a ghost, like she’s haunting his big, lovely house. She can watch his guests through the walls, listen to their conversations. When she feels very bold, with the edge of her caution buffed away by the lovely, shiny pills, she sneaks out and follows them room to room. Always just out of sight, always out of mind.

New voices, old voices. She imagines that she’s there with them, sipping sweet wine and  _alive_ , alive and free to go outside, to feel the sun on her face. She’s beginning to forget little things, like how far from her back porch to the stream at the bottom of the hill, the shape of Marissa’s fingernails, where she kept her little pallet of eyeshadow in the bathroom back home – was it the second drawer or the third? How many paces was her room from one side to the other? It was larger than this one, wasn’t it?

Where she forgets there are always new things waiting to take their place. How to set a formal dinner table, how to peel tomatoes into roses, how much a man’s leg weighs before it is trimmed for cooking. Abigail has always been good at learning, quick on the uptake.

But she drifts. Sometimes she forgets what she’s doing halfway through and stands there, staring into the middle distance until Hannibal comes to guide her hands back to the knife. Sometimes she sleeps for days at a time, or forgets to eat. That doesn’t last, then there’s always Hannibal’s gentle hands and his smiling eyes, his calm melodic voice telling her what to put in her mouth and when and why.

He gives her food, he helps her bathe, he gives her clothes. The clothes are strange. Expensive fabrics that feel too fine to wear every day. But there’s no other kind so she’s cautious about how she moves, how she exists. When he’d first brought them she had blushed at the underwear, bags and bags of silky or lacy panties and bras, wrapped in tissue paper. But Hannibal is always so matter of fact and soon enough shame was one of the things that Abigail forgot.

She wakes wearing only pink panties and a cream knit sweater and her head feels heavy, fogged up or stuffed with cotton wool. Abigail stumbles out of her cupboard on clumsy, coltish legs and goes down the hall. It is safe now, they have their privacy – they have their signals and their signs.  _Stay, go, safe, hide_. She knows when she’s allowed.

Men’s voices echo and redouble down the hall. Abigail feels hollow.  _I am a ghost_ , she thinks,  _little dead girl, little dead girl_ , it bounces around in her head and she walks faster to try and outpace her thoughts.

“Are you dead too?” her voice sounds thin and high, it sounds like someone else’s voice.

The man at the table looks familiar and not familiar – have they met before in Hannibal’s little menagerie, or has she seen his face on the evening news? Impossible to say. Abigail looks at him with naked curiosity; at the place where his legs simply  _finish_ , at the drip running into him. He has only one arm, but his beard is still neatly trimmed. Of course, Doctor Lecter must take care of that. He takes care of everything.

“Abigail,” Hannibal stands from the table, “Abel isn’t dead and neither are you.” Abel laughs and it’s a dry, hard sound. He drops his fork and it clatters on the tabletop and then spills to the floor. He and Abigail both watch it spin across the floor and then turn back to look at Hannibal.

“You can’t see me,” she says with her chin high, “you can’t see me, I’m a ghost.”

“ _Abigail_ ,” Hannibal sounds as though he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be exasperated, “Abigail, aren’t you cold?” he gestures to her bare legs and she scowls.

“You can’t see me,” she insists, then crosses to his end of the table and places her hand on his chest, “you  _can’t_  see me,” she pushes and he sinks back into his chair. Abigail climbs into Hannibal’s lap and draws her legs up against her chest. He holds onto her waist to keep her from losing her balance.

Abigail’s stomach growls and she picks a slice of bloody meat from Hannibal’s plate and eats it. She feels juice drip down her chin and she hears Hannibal’s quiet laughter behind her. Another slice, she looks down the length of the table at Abel and smiles as she chews.

“I read that …” she shifts her balance and is distracted by accidentally trying to push her hair back behind her missing ear. She keeps eating, plucks a slice of lettuce up with something she can’t name and her eyes track over to the painting on the wall. Hannibal had told her about Leda and the Swan, and she gets it, but it’s only the colours that draw her attention now. 

“You read ..?” Hannibal prompts, his voice close by her ear.

“I read that kids like dinosaurs and tigers because they could eat them,” it takes her a while to think, then, to piece together the words she wants and put them into the right order, “because if it can eat you, then it’s impressive. All those teeth.”

Abigail isn’t looking and so she doesn’t see the way Abel Gideon’s expression wavers and crumples. She twists back in Hannibal’s lap and reaches up to hold onto his shoulder for balance, ducks her head down and sinks her teeth into his throat.


End file.
